Harry Potter 1. a view beyond the chrome scope

Hullo. Yours truly is making a poor attempt at angsty, bitter-sweet romance. And, unlike the others, this one has been thought over, carefully.   
  
It's a hard feat, I admit, to attempt a romance and at the same time trying to make it realistic, in the sense that the idea of Draco and Hermione is a fun possibility to consider, but there are conflicts that deflects that possibility. In other words, as a D/Hr-shipper myself, you guys will hate me in the end.  
  
LJ username: _starburn  
  
  
  
**n o b e d o f r o s e s**  
_i. a view beyond the chrome-scope  
  
  
  
_Hermione quietly opened the door to the greenhouse and stepped inside, savouring the rich redolence of the silverflowers and pale roses that decorated the room amongst other numerous shruberies. The warmth of the room was sweet and delicate, pure and soothing; Hermione thought she could bask in this captivating glory all day and night if given the tempting offer. But, unfortunately, the idea was for naught so she fancied herself portions of her afternoons in perfumed bliss.  
  
She glanced around for a moment before settling on the farthest corner of the room, sitting herself down with a thick book on her lap. As soon as she opened the flap, the door to the greenhouse opened and shut. Hermione peered up, slightly, through her wispy fringes. Her brows furrowed in curiosity, her mahogany eyes glittering with uncertainty.  
  
Draco Malfoy had stepped inside with a polished flourish, his dark-green robe slung casually over his arm, leaving him in a black, cashmere sweater with the distinct crest of Slytherin embedded over the left breast. The shirt, somewhat tight, clung to the new muscle he had obtained from his rigorous years of Quidditch seeker - beautifully sinewy. The pale blonde tresses that were often seen slicked back to further enhance his superciliousness was now dry and windswept, strands brushing his brow, soft to the touch. The Prussian chrome of his eyes were mesmerizing and deep, as well as mysterious and unfathomable.  
  
Hermione's disdain for him was clearly great, but she was not as dim as others liked to think. She knew the Malfoys were sinfully debonair, attractive. They were the fresh apples of others' eyes. They were sweet in the looks and irresistable. No, Hermione had taste when it came to first glances. But she did have a much keener eye for personality.  
  
Waking herself from a mindless reverie, she shut her book and stood up, brushing her uniform for any stray dust particles that might have collected on the fabric. She would have stood her ground if she needed to; after all, she had been there first. But she had been at ease for the past week and wrecking the new bliss that was hers would have destroyed all serenity she had experienced. It was nice to draw away from the stringency of schoolwork sometimes, although she would never admit that she, too, had other interests than essays or spells.  
  
Excuse me, she muttered softly, as she tried to pass him. It wasn't long before she felt a firm grip on her forearm that she spun around to face him, eyes curious, although her face was set into a scowl. Malfoy, what are-  
  
She stopped mid-sentence.  
  
Prussian storms met russet plume, and her knees were close to buckling as she realised how purely wonderful a set of eyes could be, no matter how malicious or unkind they were. Now, however, there was no trace of such dislike but a searching sort of gaze. It was a look that seemed to peer through her brown mirrors and delve into the dark abyss that was her, searching and grasping frantically for her soul.  
  
Suddenly, he let her go and left the greenhouse.  
  
No spats. No glares. No mudblood.'  
  
Hermione clutched the book she was holding to her chest, wondering if what had just happened was a reality or a dream.  
  
  
  
  
  
The austere sun hung low, the blue skies fading to a pale orange and rose hue. The gentle light drifted over the mass of lush green and azure rivers and over hills in the distance. Hogwarts was just another element in the tranquil portrait of colours. The landscape seemed too ethereal, almost a dream, full of tarnished gold and antiques of emeralds. It was a blue veil over green in a palette of tints.  
  
Draco sat under the bleak willow tree with his knees to his chest, his elbows propped upon them, as his gaze swept over nature's miracles. Even so, no sense of calm, or anything else for that matter, flitted past his eyes. And if there were, it was only for a fleeting moment, a moment that could not even be defined. His mind was definitely elsewhere, simply focused on a bookish brunette with hidden curves and soulful depths of brown. Hermione Granger, Head Girl, epitomized everything he was taught to loathe, embodied everything the pure bloods were against.  
  
So why was she, once considered filth in his eyes, suddenly more than just something he despised? Something that intrigued him so? He couldn't answer that himself as much as he wanted to. Every time he searched for answers, they always led to more questions and more searching for their answers. The only explanation he could come up with was that, despite her dirty blood, she was pure in a different sense. She was another sweet innocent that every one envied. Her naivetë was simply magnetic. Not only that, but he felt a sort of strange comfort around her. Sure, he still despised her and hated her for what she was, but it didn't erase the tranquility he felt when he was around her. It eased his child-borne pains, soothed him from the man he was and the man he was to become. And, at the same time, he wanted to use and abuse her, kiss her hard enough to bruise her, wanted her to share the same unknown ache in his chest.  
  
Life was an evil and complicated thing, a myriad of complex wonders.  
  
Draco stood up and looked thoughtfully at the castle. He had no desire to go back inside. Inside, he had to put on a different mask, a façade of indifference and malignancy. Inside, his purpose was to taunt and torture, to hurt and break others when they were already down. To a Malfoy, these things were natural. There was almost a strong, invisible urge to hurt others; Malfoys were a sadistic bunch. Even so, he wanted to stay out longer where every thing was just perfect, a fantasy of sorts where a repuation was of no significance.  
  
The sun dipped below the hills, the warmth and smell of summer saved for another sunrise. In the place where the bright sun was previously etched, gloriously high in the sky, was the silver core of the velvet night where stars dipped in lustrous mercury dappled the dark blanket.  
  
The Great Hall was probably full of students already, judging by the time of the skies. The blonde youth sighed and pinned his robe around his neck.  
  
Draco Malfoy was coming inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione had just returned the book she had borrowed to the library and was now sauntering down the empty hallways to the Great Hall. The candlelights on the stone walls of the castle flickered and cast shadows against the floor and ceiling, creating an eerie glow in the dark corridors.  
  
She passed an open window and took a moment to stare out in the dark abyss, admiring the pale glow of the moon and the effervescent stars. How wonderful it would be if she could simply ignore her dinner to bask outside on a hot, summer night underneath such an amazing view of the bright cosmos. Lately, non-school-related things had piqued her interests such as wizard plays (they were quite interesting compared to the muggle plays she had read), the history of the heavens according to wizards, and much more. To her delight, there was so much more than that.  
  
Suddenly, her gaze flickered to a figure in the shadows that stood still underneath the window. The way the moon shone so bright, it was hard to miss the platinum blonde and the glowing eyes. She tilted her head to to the side, slightly.  
  
Draco?  
  
No sooner had his name flashed in her mind, the figure that seemed to be him disappeared. Hermione blinked and rubbed the nape of her neck. Maybe she was being a bit too relaxed. Draco Malfoy was never one to stare, much less at her.  
  
She pushed herself away from the window and headed towards the Great Hall.  
  
  
  
  
  
It was another ordinary night in the Great Hall. Great peals of laughter echoed and bounced off the walls. Dinner arrived on golden platters, appearing magically on the four, long tables.  
  
Minerva's eyes scanned the room with cat-like precision, then finally settled on two tables, Slytherin and Gryffindor, her eyes bouncing between them. The aged woman leaned slightly towards the elderly wizard whose silver beard, long and shimmery, glittered underneath the chandeliers' glow, his eyes twinkling with amusement and wisdom that peeked through a pair of half-moon spectacles.  
  
  
  
Dumbledore leaned towards her as well, chewing his food until it slid down his throat.  
  
Yes, Minerva?  
  
Two of our students are missing. The wrinkles on the woman's forehead stood out prominently now, worry etched quite clearly into her features.  
  
Albus Dumbledore sat quietly for a minute, his hands paused at the slice of bread on his plate. Then, he adjusted his glasses with the same hand and leaned back on his chair.  
  
It seems you're right, Minerva. He said calmly, eyes, too, switching back and forth between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables.  
  
Should we look for them?  
  
Albus reached for his bread again.  
  
I suspect that the two are not in danger. Let nature take its course, Minerva. I have a feeling that there's more to Miss Granger and Young Malfoy than they lead on.  
  
The woman leaned back into her own chair, half-relaxed and half-tense.  
  
So you say, Albus. So you say.  
  
Young Malfoy will not be deterred from what he wants and what we have on our hands right now is a curious witch. Minerva, they are growing up. I believe there is so much more to hatred, something much more stronger than hatred.  
  
She shook her head lightly.  
  
Mister Malfoy does not seem like the type, Albus.  
  
Oh, but we do not give him much credit. He may not be capable of something so pure, but he is capable of something else. He nodded.  
  
Oh? What is that?  
  
The will to try.  
  
she said, sighing, you can be a bit too optimistic at times.  
  
Perhaps not. Look, he said, pointing at the door, here they come.  
  
Minerva peered through her glasses at the magnificent oak wood door and watched as it opened gently with a reverberating creak.  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione reached the large door and was surprised to find the Slytherin prince across from her, not more than four feet away. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, staring at each other, words forgotten. Although she tried to mirror his indifference, it didn't stop the glint of interest in her brown eyes. She sized him up, her eyes coming to rest on his own. She searched and searched through his own whirlpool of blue storms, watching as it faded to grey and a chrome silver.  
  
Then, he smirked. It was hard to tell if it was genuine or not, but she figured that was the mere beauty of Draco Malfoy as a whole - he was an enigma that needed unraveling.  
  
Careful, Granger. Curiosity killed the cat.  
  
She blinked.  
  
His baritone voice was musical and alluring, she noted sourly. Draco managed elegance in whatever he did. She hated him for that.  
  
I could say the same for you,, Malfoy. She countered after a second's hesitation. Really, she was referring to the minor incident in the greenhouse, but she decided against reminding him. Draco Malfoy was smart enough to catch on.  
  
The smile vanished from his lips; instead, his brows arched slightly and she could see the faint amusement in his Prussian orbs. It was for a fleeting second, really, before he reached out to the door and pushed it open. A blinding light washed over them and when everything seemed to adjust, the many eyes of students and professors stared back at them with shock and inquisition.  
  
They walked in together and then parted ways.  
  
The chatter in the room had enormously multiplied.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ron leaned forward towards Hermione, a strand of his fiery-red hair brushing his brow.  
  
What did that slimy git do to you, Hermione? He asked calmly, anger hidden beneath his tongue.  
  
Over the years, she had noticed a change in Ron. He filled out nicely, she gave him that. His bright red hair was now much more striking. Instead of the unkempt style he kept it in from his first year to his sixth year, it was nicely combed and tousled in all directions and fixed with a generous amount of gel. He had grown out of the gangly boy stage and was now lean muscle from the few years he was on the Quidditch team, and his emerald eyes seemed bright, accentuating his physique. He had also matured, but beneath all that was the old Ron, short-tempered with his heart on his sleeve.  
  
Harry was another story. He had managed to become increasingly handsome over the years. Ron and Harry almost shared the same appearance with the slight differences between them. His hair was a dusty black, sleek and silky, and the glasses he wore gave him a tender and intelligent appeal. The talk about him had also increased. Instead of the usual gasps and shocked faces that occurred when people took notice that he was _The Boy Who Lived_, there was also much talk about his appearance amongst the young and older witches. And still, with all that attention, Harry continued to shy away from it, modest as he was.  
  
She twirled a strand of her hair around her finger, absently.  
  
He didn't do anything.  
  
It was a little white lie, really. But the incident earlier in the afternoon was very minor. It wasn't as if he had tried anything with her.  
  
Harry and Ron exchanged skeptical looks then turned back to her.  
  
The young Ron would have been livid now, would have jumped to conclusions that the git was just toying around and that he would have tried something. The young Ron would have made a firm statement that Draco Malfoy was still a prat and not to be trusted.   
  
This Ron, however, tried to keep his anger from seeping. He bit his lip. He was getting better, she had to admit.  
  
I still don't trust him. Ron spat, before distracting himself with food.  
  
Hermione was about to reach for a slice of bread when she glanced up at Harry, only to find he was staring at her with uncertainty. Harry, always wide-eyed and observant. Sometimes, she wished he was just another dim-witted fool. Unfortunately, he wasn't but Hermione loved him all the same.  
  
She asked, innocently.  
  
Harry shook his head then smiled brightly.  
  
Nothing, Hermione. He paused. Just remember that we're here, okay? You don't need to hide anything.  
  
How was she to retaliate to that?  
  
Harry returned to his food and began another exciting conversation about Quidditch with Ron and the other boys.  
  
Hermione sighed. For some reason, she had lost her appetite. She didn't dwell on it for too long when her gaze suddenly locked across the room to a pair of eyes that were staring back at her. Slightly unnerved, she excused herself from the table and left the Great Hall.  
  
It wasn't long before Draco followed.  
  
Albus's lips twitched into a smile.   
  
He never saw the frown and worried look on his colleague's face.  
  
  
  
  
  
Normally, she would have gone to the library to study. Now, she was in the library for a different purpose. Hermione wanted to think, sort out her conflicting feelings. It wasn't so much as being intimidated by his unusual stares, but she wasn't daft enough to not notice the glances he shot her every so often. Now that she was recalling it, it started out on the first day of their meeting when they were assigned a separate tower for making Head Boy and Head Girl. Whenever Professor Dumbledore said something, she would nod in confirmation and look towards Draco to see if he was paying the slightest attention. He was, in fact, but his attention seemed to be directed at her instead. And the minute she had caught his eyes, he would look away and maintain his insufferable expression of superiority.  
  
She was sure that today wasn't the first day he was staring at her.  
  
Why would he, though?  
  
Then, she felt someone metaphorically burning holes into her head. She twitched slightly on her chair and shifted into a different position.  
  
Hasn't your mother ever told you that staring is rude? She snapped without looking up.  
  
A swish of robes, the _pat pat pat_ of shoes on padded floor, and the flop on a chair. Hermione looked up into the face of Draco, who was sitting right across from her with the same look he had on back at the greenhouse.  
  
she sighed, I would appreciate it greatly if you didn't look at me like that.  
  
He smirked and leaned back on his chair, resting his feet on the table.  
  
Why? Does it make you nervous?  
  
For lack of better words, yes, actually. And don't think I haven't noticed you staring at me before. Honestly, this is creepy - even for you, Malfoy.  
  
I figured you would.  
  
Silence weighed them under a heavy blanket and Hermione was suffocating. With every passing second, the urge to wipe off the taunting smile on his face amounted greatly.  
  
  
  
Well' what?  
  
Prat.  
  
Will you stop?  
  
  
  
Why in heaven's not? She demanded, standing up and slamming both hands on the desk. The portraits looked at her, condescendingly, for interrupting whatever conversation they were having with other portraits. They seemed to accept the new silence that followed and continued.  
  
Draco stood up, mirroring her stance, except he was leaning more towards her. Too angered, Hermione never noticed.  
  
Torture doesn't stop at words, Granger.  
  
She glared at him before he turned away and left the library. When he was a good way away, Hermione let out a loud squeal of frustration.  
  
The portraits hushed, annoyed.  
  
Hermione looked around her and saw the paintings looking back at her with expectance. She smiled, sheepishly, and exited.  
  
  
  
  
  
Torture wasn't the whole reason. Draco had other intentions but he'd be damned to let her know what they were. Besides, getting under her skin seemed so much better. Hogwarts was becoming boring, Pansy and company were beginning to get bothersome. In other words, he was looking for excitement. Hermione Granger seemed like the perfect victim. She shared the same tower with him for easy access to annoy the lovely bookworm, she was another element to the Potter factor (two birds with one stone, in actuality), and it was ridiculously easy to get under her skin. Virgin Granger really needed to know a thing or two. He wanted to see how far she could play. If he was correct in his assumptions, Hermione was the proud sort and backing down from anyone - especially a Malfoy - was unacceptable. She would stand up to him, confront him for every action he would take upon her. He wanted that, wanted to aggravate her in many ways as possible: mentally, physically, sexually. He would play her for the filth she was and keep going at it when she had finally broken down.  
  
Another part of him told him otherwise.  
  
These were just simple distractions. It was just another reason to stay close to her.  
  
After all, she relieved him of pain and if he could just get release, then he would truly be free. And she seemed to be the perfect outlet.  
  
Even if it did mean torturing her at the same time.  
  
  
  
  
  
Hermione sighed and closed the door to her room, savoring the warmth of her room. In the fireplace, where crackling embers of the small blaze danced wildly, the fire licked shadows on the wall, dancing primitively on the rosewood doors before slipping to the crimson-carpeted floor in a pool of black shadows. The setting of the dark room was almost other-worldly, if not for the scattered papers on the desk and floors, which threw off the ambiance of the room. Hermione walked slowly to the parchments and plucked them from the floor, placing them underneath a paper-weight on her desk in the shape of a graceful lion.  
  
She flopped down on the bed and stretched languorously on the silk sheets that brushed against her bare legs. A yawn escaped her lips and sleep soon drifted above her, taking her away to dreamland.  
  
Draco stood up from the red plush chair that was hidden in the shadows and raked a pale, strong hand through his blonde hair. The girl was a complete lush, a beautiful portrait all on its own. With her wavy brown locks and fair skin, she appeared smaller and fragile, a sweet seraphim that the stars from the heavens sent down to torture him, please him, hate him, and love him.  
  
He smirked at that.  
  
Love was alien in his vocabulary. Torture, pleasure, and hatred would have to do.  
  
Tossing the sleeping maiden a final look, he left her room, shutting the door behind him with a soft _click._  
  
  
  
  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
// end chapter i, 2o - o9 - o3  
  
You'll realise that there's not much interaction between the characters, save Draco and Hermione, Dumbledore and McGonagall. I did that intentionally for reasons of my own, which I won't delve into here.  
  
Anyhow, I hope you liked it. I'm very proud of it and I'm happy that I actually have a timeline for it, whereas my other stories lack that specific aspect and I work in the spur of the moment.  
  
Review, please.


	2. a stroke of silk, a brush of velvet

I have never felt more proud of myself. I actually know how the story's going to end _and_ I have the deleted scene' from chapter seven written.  
  
For those of you who read _Midsummer Nights_, I reckon there's one or two more chapters left. I assumed there would be more but no. (_Note to self:_ _Midsummer Nights is in desperate need for a revision.)_  
  
  
  
**n o b e d o f r o s e s  
**_ii. a stroke of silk, a brush of velvet_  
  
  
  
Shafts of sun light seeped through the plume curtains and into the room, the golden fingers crawling on the floor and slowly up the walls in a rippling glow. It traced the portraits with amazing gentleness and found its way to the sleeping girl through the transparent canopy. The light splayed against her face, a halo of light encircling her head in a rich shine. The girl twisted on her side, the blankets that hugged her body getting tangled in her stretched limbs. She tossed again and finally sat up, disheveled hair and sleepy eyes and all. Hermione forced herself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, covering her mouth as she yawned whilst her other opened the bathroom door.  
  
Her eyes scanned the room, before they fell on a familiar someone. Draco Malfoy stood in front of the bathroom mirror and through his reflection, she observed him - bare-chested, wet and with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. She could see the lean muscle on his arms and the curve of his sharp hipbones and the way they dipped lower into a forbidden unknown. Her eyes traveled over his shoulder where they rested on his smooth back. Upon inspecting closer, she noticed that as smooth as it was, there were the fading traces of scars. They looked painful.  
  
She didn't dwell on that much longer when the bane of her existence cleared his throat and rested his palms on the marble sink, then looked at her reflection, a scowl on his face but amusement twinkling in his god-forsaken, beautiful eyes.  
  
I fancy people who knock, Granger. He frowned, a sneer itching at his lips.  
  
She flushed bright pink.  
  
Well, I- I, stuttered Hermione, I didn't - oh, Merlin's beard, Malfoy! Maybe this wouldn't have happened if you locked both doors!  
  
Silence then hung in the air. Draco proceeded to style his hair in its usual fashion, looking at the gaping witch every so often. After fixing his hair, he washed his hands and looked at her reflection once again.  
  
Granger, I suggest you leave unless you're adamant on seeing more of me. His voice was rather calm, with the barest trace of spite lacing his voice.  
  
She growled and muttered, Fine. Just you hurry up.  
  
Then, she left, closing the door behind her.  
  
Draco stared at himself, turning around and looking over his shoulder to inspect the familiar scars he had received over the years. He had always prided himself on perfect skin, despite the inflicted wounds, but it didn't help heal the fact that he wasn't perfect at all. The marrings on his skin proved that outright. He grimaced as his eyes traced one of the more distinct ones, the one that was slashed behind his left shoulder blade and over his front. Earlier, he had contented himself underneath Hermione's searching gaze, but he had not appreciated it when her eyes lingered on his back longer than necessary.  
  
He let a long finger touch a smaller slash on his shoulder, his own skin like silk beneath his fingertips. He rubbed the back of his neck before continuing to stretch out the kinks in other places of his body before he parted from the bathroom to change back into familiar attire.  
  
  
  
  
  
You saw him _naked?_  
  
Hermione buried her flushing face in her hands. Ron was taking this whole matter to epic proportions and god forbid anyone else heard it. She was embarrassed as it was from the earlier incident that morning and with Ron embellishing said incident, she couldn't have been more mortified about it. Trust Ron to make a big deal of things that weren't as big in the first place.  
  
It sounds bad when _you_ say it. She muttered. And Ron, will you keep your voice down! I did not see him naked.  
  
Naked, half-naked. Big difference. It's unthinkable! The important thing is you saw that lousy git _naked-_  
  
Hermione interrupted with a sigh.  
  
Ron glared.  
  
Does it really matter? barked Ron.  
  
Hermione rubbed her forehead and snuck a glance at Harry, who remained silent during the inquistion of sorts.  
  
Hermione pleaded, tell Ron he's overreacting.  
  
I am _not_ overreacting, Hermione. You- you, oh god. The images, the images ... Ron moaned.  
  
Harry patted his friend on the back then, trying to retain the smile that was threatening to merge onto his lips. He looked at Hermione, apologetically.  
  
I trust that it was nothing, Hermione. But let Ron slowly digest this information. Malfoy and Ron aren't exactly best mates.  
  
That is sorely an understatement, Harry. Ron growled, then looked at Hermione. Listen, I'm sorry. But this is just too much. Malfoy naked ... argh.  
  
Hermione arched a brow and munched slowly on a piece of toast.  
  
And you say what happened between Malfoy and I was unthinkable.  
  
That's different!  
  
Is it? You don't see me having any mental pictures of that snake naked.  
  
Ron growled in frustration.  
  
  
  
  
  
He couldn't remember when he really smiled, even if it did seem a little bit deranged, but seeing the short-tempered Weasley barking mad was enough to suffice any pleasurable enjoyments. He watched the trio for a moment, watching Hermione move her lips and then grinning. If he were anyone else but Draco Malfoy, he reckoned he would be smiling now, as he watched her laugh her musical laugh. He would bask in her mere presence in the room and all would be right in the world. He would be elated, would boldly walk up to the Gryffindor table and embrace her and kiss her breath away. But Draco Malfoy he was, and Malfoys never succumbed to emotions except for superiority and arrogance. Usually. Draco was sitting, stoic and rigid, at the Slytherin table, his pale face unreadable and his lips in a grim line.  
  
Life was nothing short of a fairytale. There was no happy endings and there was no such thing as a bad bloke turned good. In reality, there was no thin line between. In reality, soulless and emotionless people remained soulless and emotionless.  
  
A tingling feeling ran up and down his left arm and he shivered involuntarily. He glared and looked to his right to see Pansy siding up to him, her arms around his waist and her fingers tracing spirals on his left wrist under his sleeve. He looked at her curiously, a blonde brow shooting up in speculation.  
  
What are you doing, Pansy?  
  
She pursed her lips and pulled back her arm to finger the soft flesh under her wrist where three distinct dark spots in the form of a triangle resided.  
  
Just checking. You haven't been paying much attention to me, is all.  
  
Draco resisted to roll his eyes. He moved up his left sleeve and showed his wrist to Pansy. And, lo and behold, an identical set of black dots was embedded into his wrist, just painted there looking plain and curiously eerie. Pansy smiled then, her grey eyes beaming. She toyed absently with her dark ponytail and looked him in the eye.  
  
That's good.  
  
He dropped his sleeve and made an inhuman grunt in the back of his throat. Three dirty spots as a form of engagement was convenient, he thought sourly. He would have expected more from high-class wizards. Something with more value. But, at any rate, he didn't mind how grungy or unattractive it made his appearance. It was only Pansy.  
  
Draco's eyes strayed once again to the Gryffindor table, watching her as she eagerly lifted an envelope from an incoming owl. She removed a perfectly creased, perfectly white parchment from within the pocket and unfolded it tenderly. He watched the way her cinnamon eyes scanned over the words, taking in their meanings and their truths deeply, with understanding. He indulged himself in the softly growing smile that slowly graced its way onto her rose-coloured lips, the way she shyly tucked a strand of wavy hair behind her ear, the way she moved with an unconscious fluid elegance. That fact alone made her all the more appealing, he concluded silently.  
  
Then, her smile faded, although her eyes were still glowing brightly. She tucked the piece of paper into the envelope and hid it away in one of her book covers. Hermione grinned and looked towards Harry, that same smile reappearing on her lovely face. Draco observed the boyish smirk that spread on the famous wizard's face, the way the two friends locked gazes with hidden affection. Ron saw sparks, looking between Harry and Hermione every now and then. His eyes fell on the tucked-away letter and suddenly, he patted his best mate on his back and teased Hermione with a grin. Draco scowled and furrowed his brow.  
  
What was that all about?  
  
Students began filing out of the Great Hall, gathering books and dragging their friends out of the room with cheery smiles on their happy faces. The Slytherins remained still until most of the other Houses had left and began leaving themselves. Draco contented himself with the fact that Hermione was still in the process of leaving, gathering her books and such, despite the affectionate brushing of hands she and Harry had shared not too long ago.  
  
Hermione had then walked out, and he followed her quietly. He had no worries about being questioned why he was following the mudblood. They shared their next class together - Arithmancy. He welcomed himself with the pleasant view of her backside and bare legs, now that her god-forsaken robes were now cast away due to the heat. It was these rare moments he thanked Hogwarts for the slightly skimpy skirts female students had to wear. A sly smile appeared on his face as he amused himself with the way her hips swayed lightly, yet seductively without her knowledge. The fact that Hermione Granger, Bookworm Extraordinaire and Virgin Queen Wonder, was completely unawares of her feminine grace and maturity seemed to appeal to many of the red-blooded males at Hogwarts, although it was more of physical attraction than anything else. She didn't have the voluptuous curves like the exotic Parvati Patil or the seductive and sleek body of the playful Lavender Brown, but her curves were there - sweet and charming and sinfully innocent.  
  
The Arithmancy room was not far off and, thinking on his feet, he grabbed hold of her arm and tugged her into the nearest room, which was, luckily, an abandoned classroom.  
  
With all that tugging, Hermione had dropped her books in the process and she groaned aloud, as she bent down and picked up the books with a look of annoyance etched deeply in her forehead. She glanced up for a mere second at her captor and huffed lightly.  
  
I guess I'm not surprised. She said, dully. Planning on finishing what we started in the library?  
  
He crossed his arms. Not particularly.  
  
Well, then. If you'll excuse me. Hermione nodded with a curt voice. It wasn't like she was _encouraging_ him to finish his little promise, but it was the only reason she could figure at the moment that was slightly reasonable for his eccentric behaviour as of late. She turned on her heel and opened the door. She was unable to pull it open fully for his strong hand had quickly shut it. Her eyes glanced at his arm that was in close proximity to her face and she scowled. She spun around. What in the world do you think you're doing? Irk me if you must, but I intend to go to class unlike _some_ people.  
  
His silver eyes took in the shape of her face, traced the contours of her lips. Without hesitation, his head dipped lower and he allowed his mouth to faintly brush her own, admiring the velvet curves and the sweet taste of honey and lilacs. Then, he pulled away but not without the playful nip at her bottom lip. She released a soft whimper from her lips. He smirked a devilish smirk, loving how she had cowered closer to the door, clutching her books tighter to her chest.  
  
Lust was power. Power was an unimaginable glory.  
  
And Malfoys _lived_ for power.  
  
Her cheeks were faintly flushed, tinged a beautiful rosy colour that accentuated her peach-pale skin. She pursed her lips, fire in her eyes.  
  
That was- _that_ was uncalled for, Malfoy! Hermione sputtered.  
  
He narrowed his eyes, slits of silver piercing through her and she felt a strong urge to shudder under his gaze. It was strange how she felt several emotions clawing at her as she stared back into his eyes. Anger. Curiosity. Desire. She reprimanded herself, furiously, for having betrayed herself with guilty thoughts.  
  
Can you honestly tell me that you didn't enjoy it?  
  
Hermione opened her mouth but was shocked when nothing came out. She desperately wanted to say _I didn't!'_ and yet, somehow, her own voice betrayed her as well. This was utterly shameful, a demeaning way of being cornered. She had already - indirectly - told him that she had liked that small kiss. And if that wasn't defiling her _mudblood_ status, then Merlin, she didn't know what else could taint her name. Tears pricked her eyes. Suddenly, it was hard being under such a penetrating gaze, one that touched and attempted to unravel who she was inside: Hermione Granger, naive to all things immoral and risque, was like any other female with hormones.   
  
The crystalline droplets threatened to pour as she reminisced on their kiss. Guiltily, she admitted that, despite his icy lips, they had a soft texture and were wonderfully skilled - even if the kiss did only last for a millisecond. She had felt him, ten-fold - the way his body warmth comforted her, his minty breath on her lips, the way his lips brushed hers, feather-soft. These were things she had not expected from a Malfoy, things she would have never done with a Malfoy, things she would never _enjoy_ from _Draco Malfoy._  
  
It was just wrong. _Wrong.  
  
_Which was why she couldn't help the single tear that slid down her face.  
  
She was defiled in the worst way possible because he didn't have to try so hard.  
  
Hermione shoved him away with her petite body and flung the door open, dashing outside to get away from him.  
  
A wry smile came to his lips and his eyes strayed towards the stone wall, a dry and humourless laugh escaping his lips. His timbre voice escalated until it could no more; his face contorted into confusion and then an unidentifiable source of rage. He let out a short, frustrated yell before pounding on the door. He had just kissed the ... the _disgusting_ excuse for a mudblood because he was caught up in the moment. That ... _thing_ truly was a witch - bewitching him and meddling with his mind. _God!_ He actually thought that she - the _filth_ that she was - was attractive, even for a miniscule moment in time. He felt degraded. _Dirty._ To hell with the fact that he initiated it. To hell with the fact that he had enjoyed it. To _hell_ with everything! It didn't matter because who held a higher status? _He did._ Who had more money? _He did._ Who was the pureblood? _He was._  
  
But what really angered him - truly, completely rattled him senseless - was that _she_ had turned _him_ down, that she was able to wrap him around her finger without bloody trying, that someone so dirty and beautiful was able to kindle all these mixed emotions from him when no one else could, that she could brush him off at times like he was _nothing_, that - that she was not goddamned suitable for him because of her _dirty, god-forsaken_ blood. And for what? For being brought up with such moralities, such different beliefs.  
  
He let himself rest against the door and he allowed himself a few minor blows to the head, pounding it against the solid structure.  
  
A little spark of light appeared in the middle of the room, and Draco narrowed his eyes to the sight of a familiar elf.  
  
Dobby.  
  
The ugly thing looked up at him with his big, round eyes and his ragged clothes. Just looking at that thing almost made him sick.  
  
Dobby saw what happened with Miss Hermione. Dobby wishes to help Master Draco. His hands were clasped together and he was smiling, expectantly.  
  
That ugly thing was _still_ calling him _Master_? What an idiot. It was utterly lacking in brain cells, that's what. It didn't even belong to him anymore.  
  
Get the bloody hell away from me! He snarled viciously, moving his hand to where his wand resided by his waist. _Or better yet ...'_  
  
Dobby yelped and bounced but before he could disappear in the haze of smoke, Draco held up a hand to signal the elf to stop.  
  
Actually, I withdraw that. You can help me. He said slowly, although beneath the calm tone was the barest hint of malice.  
  
How, sir? How can Dobby help? Dobby is most eager to help Master Draco.  
  
The desire to swat the miserable creature was intensifying. It was almost pathetic how the ugly thing practically groveled at his feet. It slightly relieved the ache from earlier, made him feel more superior. For the time being.  
  
I want you to go to the Gryffindor tower and get something for me ...  
  
  
  
  
  
Yet again, Arithmancy was nothing short of exciting. In fact, he thought arrogantly, he could have passed the class if he had been deaf _and_ blind.  
  
Draco's eyes fell on Hermione, who was currently scribbling away with her quill. The wretched woman was turning his head into a jumbled mess, awakening every emotion he had learned to ignore or forget. She angered him and fascinated him in all ways possible. She caused him grief and offered him solace all at once. This whole thing ... it was preposterous. Why bother chasing after a mudblood who wished to have nothing to do with you and vice versa? Not only did it confuse him to great lengths, it aggravated him as well.  
  
Mudblood affecting a pureblood.  
  
He was sure there was no connection.  
  
So why now? Why him? Why _her,_ of all people?  
  
No matter how many times he searched for answers, he could never get them.  
  
  
  
  
  
After Arithmancy class, Hermione stormed outside to the greenhouse and dropped her books on the ground with a loud _thud!_ and plopping down beside them with an angry scowl and a whiny huff to accompany it. There was just nerve written all over that twisted boy - man - youth - whatever. After their little encounter in the abandoned classroom, she would have thought he would take the hint. This was unfortunate for her, for she had spotted him giving her glances every now and then even if he wasn't aware of her noticing.  
  
It was most unsettling.  
  
So she had the strong _desire_ to wrap her fingers around his beautiful neck (for a guy, he did have beautiful ... well, everything) and strangle him until he had lost his grasp on his senses and was begging mercifully for air. Or she could take the easy way and hex him into a bloody oblivion, of which he would never find his way out. The latter seemed a tad bit more appealing, but the idea of doing things for oneself felt wonderfully joygasmic - if there ever was such a word.  
  
So maybe, just maybe, if he ever attempted such a stupid move _again_, she would strangle him until he forgot how to breathe.  
  
She sighed then, fully content with herself and her future plans for an unlucky ferret. Her finger absently toyed with a sleeping moonflower, as she contemplated her day's schedule. It wasn't until the greenhouse door opened and shut that she found herself unable to stop cursing herself for thinking about him and how he should keep his distance. It was Murphy's Law. Blast the idiot and his theories.  
  
Hermione scowled. Stalking is not a sport, I assure you.  
  
Of course not. Quidditch is, however.  
  
She rolled her eyes.  
  
Don't you have more practical things to do with your time? Like torture first-years?  
  
Draco smirked at this and fingered an ivy vine growing on the glass walls.  
  
Why torture first-years when you're available?  
  
The ferret was an insufferable, schizophrenic creature. He had been an enigma yesterday, a nuisance this morning, eccentric earlier that afternoon, and now an over-confident, narcissistic pureblood. Will wonders never cease?  
  
she started, I'm trying to be civil here so could you please do me a favour and stop whatever mind game you're playing?  
  
I assure you, I have no idea what you're talking about.  
  
Silence hung in the air, hovered above them in loud volumes. Hermione cast a meek glance at the Slytherin and was surprised to find him staring at her. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't put a finger down on what his eyes were telling her. Several unidentified emotions flitted through his eyes, and she was unable to grasp even one. She saw him trying to compose himself, saw sadness turn into fury, then from stillness to pain. There was just so many. It then hit her that maybe it was those ... scars she had seen earlier that was causing him such distress.  
  
So she hated him, so she often found it peaceful if the Slytherin was dead. But what kind of monster would inflict wounds on someone young and fresh?  
  
_Lucius, perhaps,'_ she thought bitterly.  
  
Now, how was one to go about a situation that wasn't one's to deal with?  
  
  
  
Now he had annoyance written on his face. She was surprised he wasn't going through an emotional breakdown.  
  
  
  
I, uh- nothing, nevermind. She didn't know why, but she couldn't bring herself to ask a question. Not only was it _not_ her business, but having a slightly elongated conversation with a Malfoy was a shocking turn of events all on its own. And conversations always led to something else, whether it was a new, blazing hatred or a blooming friendship. Somehow, that idea didn't satisfy her in the least when Draco Malfoy was involved.   
  
She couldn't risk something happening between them. In no way was she thinking of a relationship that said more than words but the pureblooded wizards were right: no good can come out of any sort of relationship between a mudblood and pureblood.  
  
She had no idea what she was thinking, no idea why she bothered to have any short and curt conversations with him, even if it was just a nod.  
  
Hermione picked up her things and left the greenhouse, leaving a confused and frustrated Draco in her wake.  
  
  
  
  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
// end chapter i, o4 - 1o - o3  
  
I purposely made sure that there are several loose ends of the story (ie. the letter, favour of Dobby) that won't be dealt with until later, so I apologise if you end up confused somewhere in the middle. And if the characters' emotions seem a bit perplexing, they were intentionally made to be that way.  
  
And the greenhouse seems to be the basis of the story. Hm.  
  
_[edit o5-1o-o3] Thank you, Meriadoc / Celithrathien for pointing out the mistake. If any of you see stupid mistakes I make, point it out so I may fix it. [/edit]_


End file.

Harry Potter, Angst, Romance